


An Incongruous Meeting

by SunAndMoon (LadyMorgaine)



Series: Seventeen AUs [5]
Category: SEVENTEEN (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Regency, M/M, Pre-Relationship
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-27
Updated: 2020-10-26
Packaged: 2021-03-08 21:47:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,546
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27223735
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyMorgaine/pseuds/SunAndMoon
Summary: Fresh from the betrothal and wedding of Jisoo and Seokmin, Vernon Darcy gets sent on a most unusual country visit. Whilst there are entertainments and parties as per normal, there are also devils, talking cats and revelations about his history that he never expected.
Series: Seventeen AUs [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1434301
Comments: 8
Kudos: 9





	1. Chapter 1

“It might interest you to know, little brother, that your cousin Harriet is getting married,” Seokmin remarked as he scanned a letter scented nauseatingly with dried lavender. “Her mother did us the courtesy of inviting the family to a retreat in the country before the wedding, and notes there shall be sport for your brother. Of course, we are also welcome, it seems, if Jisoo can’t make it now that he’s the Earl. Congratulations, etc – a very even hand. Remind me, which one is she again, and why is she inviting the new bluestocking in the family?”

Vernon tried to concentrate on the dusty-sweet scent of the distant lawns and not his hair, which was being tugged at dreadfully by his manservant to tame it. “My third cousin, I believe? Harriet Winton, but she is barely past sixteen, she has not even had a Season yet. And it’s not everyone that hates you, only Aunt Catherine.”

“Harriet doesn’t need one, dear, if I’m remembering correctly – short, blonde and handsome will win out just as easily as a large fortune at times, as you well know.” Jisoo, eyes shut, lounged back on the sofa with his legs across his husband’s lap.

That comment stung a little even if his brother meant it well. Vernon managed a false smile, but said nothing. Their mother had been described as a vast beauty by all that saw her, and more than one poem had been written comparing her to Helen of Troy. Jisoo had her facial structure and her lithe build, her regal manner of carrying herself. He, on the other hand, had inherited his father’s dark curly hair and not his mother’s straight shining locks, with pale brown eyes that might as well be described as faded wood.

Beyond that his face and form were handsome and he had excellent teeth, but he doubted he would have launched a thousand ships. He showed no signs of his height slowing down, for one thing, even though he had money aplenty.

_The problem… the problem was himself_ , he had to acknowledge with a mental sigh.

He had the innate curiosity of a cat and was likely the one of the only second sons that knew his Aesop from his Aedisia even if he had the habit of zoning out. He spoke five languages, had been trained by his brother in estate management, and couldn’t converse politely worth a damn. Additionally, most of the ladies and gentlemen of his set shied away from his indulgence in history both ancient and recent, his admiration for natural sciences, and his ability to argue sound logics when he wanted to.

Not that _that_ happened often, not when his infernal shyness reared its head.

His mother, Lady Georgiana Sheffield, had been a mere sixteen years old when she married his father. Her family had been an ancient line fallen on hard times, and saw her ethereal golden beauty as an asset; whilst there had been murmurings of some dark secret, no particulars ever circulated. They married, and she was with child within a few months. Her husband doted much on her, and Joshua became one of the happiest babes ever, active and cute and the apple of his parents’ eyes. A good luck baby, despite the arrogant snide son he grew into before Seokmin had tamed him with love.

His parents had had seven years of happiness before disaster struck. Countess Georgiana became pregnant again, and delivered a son barely six months later. Vernon had been a tiny baby, lucky to live when his mother did not, dying of complications during childbirth. A dark time fell on the three men, and dear Appleby Cottage of Jisoo’s youth was shut down as they removed to Pemberley. In order to distract himself, his father concentrated on politics and the financial markets, making a vast fortune in investments. He entrusted his sons to wet-nurses and tutors, wishing to forget his golden wife. The only light in the boys’ life had been the estate manager, Mr. Wickam, and the play they could have with his son, George. Still, he and Jisoo had been bosom bows, which left Vernon rather at a disadvantage.

Things only started going better around his tenth year of life, when his father caught him having fallen asleep reading a large tome of Natural Sciences in the main study one evening. He carried Vernon to bed, but when he questioned him about the topic the next evening, his answers surprised his father with their curiosity and childish intent. Very soon a tutor was appointed, which added French, German, Spanish and Italian to the other lessons; neither father nor tutor minded him running away with a book if it was something educational, and it stopped him from getting too lonely as Jisoo and George bonded.

Four years later, he had just about gotten into step with his life when the unthinkable happened and his world turned upside-down. His father took a wound from helping one of the tenant farmers, and recovery from that dragged all winter and eventually into pneumonia – he didn’t make the spring, and Jisoo was forced to step up as the next earl.

George Wickham, far from the pillar of support his brother needed during that time, turned out to be the worst sort of libertine. He squandered the cash compensation for the living he had gotten from the will, tried to trick Vernon into a relationship for his money, and eventually disappeared from their lives.

To this day, Vernon had not admitted the depth of the wound in his heart to anyone. Loving now was an intellectual concept, with intimacy something that happened to other people. He disappeared into his books and his fencing as often as he could.

Seokmin… Seokmin’s strange, convoluted, _blessed_ relationship with his brother had the effect not only of reforming a bitter Jisoo, but pulling Vernon up out of the depths as well. He brought talent and beauty and artistry into their cold Pemberley, he was warm and strong and sincere in his thoughts, and above all he loved with a fiery brightness that illuminated everything.

Under Seokmin’s hand he learnt the society talents he had eschewed but would need at court as part of his brother’s family, not to mention the thousand and one dances, balls, summer hunting trips, strolls and the like that modern gentlemen had to be well-versed in. Still, as Seokmin’s French valet Hubert said, Vernon was very much a ‘left shoe meant for the right still’, and as a result much less cultured than he would have been otherwise.

It was, Vernon reflected, not of much use. Oh, he had learnt, but enough of his character had been formed by long solitudes, and nothing would make him the silver-tongued young buck so beloved amongst the Prince’s set. Besides, many of those ladies and gentlemen were very stupid indeed, and Vernon had learnt early from Jisoo not to squander away nights whilst carding at White’s or another men’s club.

Hubert’s pulling on his hair only made last night’s disastrous example of a ball even worse. There had been countless issues of the day that could have been discussed, but the moment he asked his partner what she thought of Indian music the young lady had stammered, bluffed her way through and disappeared as soon as possible.

_No_ , Vernon thought quietly. Some time in the country was just what he wanted, especially if he could get away from the twice-daily ‘social events’ such house parties often entailed.

“It’s still honeymoon time for you two,” he ventured, seeing Seokmin look up at him. “Jisoo is not the wedding type, except for his own. I lucked out with you, but I think you two deserve some private time from me too? As a wedding gift, if nothing else.”

Seokmin treated him to a beaming smile. “Are you sure? It’s near the Forest of Dean, which you might like to see, but the house party at Goodrich Manor will be for at least a month, a week before and three after.”

“You can take Hubert,” Jisoo drawled. “I don’t plan on getting dressed.”

Vernon rolled his eyes as Seokmin smacked Jisoo’s one kneecap. “It’ll be fine if our cousins don’t mind.”

“And,” Seokmin continued triumphantly, “it will give us the excuse to go shopping. You need new things in any case, and I’m sure your brother’s tailor will understand the need to hurry.”

Vernon put his face down and groaned. Hubert, used to their antics, merely clicked his tongue and took a firmer grasp of his hair.


	2. Chapter 2

The rain was interminable as it thundered down on the coach’s roof, and privately Vernon wished he could still curl up in his father’s old military greatcoat. His memory suggested that it had been redolent with his father’s cologne and pipe smoke, and the very weight and feel of it had been a comfort. Before he had gotten his height at fifteen, he could pull it around himself twice, and had sometimes used it as a tent. Now, sitting as a young gentleman should in the carriage, he felt sullen about growing up.

Hubert sat across him, having ixnayed ‘the young gentleman’ making the last leg of the road on horseback. Conversation between them had been stilted these past few days, and Vernon had spent most his time staring out the window. Reading in the coach gave him headaches and nausea, so he didn’t even have that to fall back on and there were only so many times he could stand for Hubert to trounce him in _Vingt-et-Un._

He tried to slouch back against the seat and fall asleep, but the constant shaking made him more nauseous than ever. He couldn’t open the window in the heavy downpour – he felt sorry for the horses being out in it, to say nothing of the coachmen – and grimaced, trying to count down the miles from their last stop at a public house for lunch. That made him think of his stomach though, and that roiling organ did _not_ appreciate it.

A while later, when the rain lightened a little and they turned into the park the house stood in, he had such a headache that he had to fight to get out of the coach with Hubert’s help. He looked up, trying to fight past the raging auras he saw. The house itself was of a pale local stone but weathered by a few hundred years, and had a huge formal garden. Hubert took enough pity on him to lead him up the stairs to the hands of the butler – apparently everyone was down at the village for some kind of premarital thing – and he counted his lucky stars when that revered servant took one look at him and ushered him into the capable hands of the housekeeper. The housekeeper, a delightful older lady, bustled him straight upstairs to his room.

The room itself was extraordinarily restful, speaking of some bounty of good taste on the part of its decorator. Pale green-grey silk covered the walls and had a washed teal glint in certain angles of the light, and the furniture was light and graceful oak, likely new, though all the pieces glowed with polish and good care. He could do little beyond murmuring her thanks and promising that he’d be down for drinks and supper.

The last he was aware of, beyond Hubert helping him get into bed, was a tightness as if a clamp was tightening against his temples, the headache was so fierce. Grimacing, he bade Hubert draw the curtains, palmed a soft cloth in case his nose bled, and closed his eyes to sleep.

* * *

When Vernon woke it was on the late edge of afternoon, just a little before he’d have to get ready for the evening meal, which was served early in the country. The sky was still a louring grey that hissed with rain, and he felt tired and disconsolate. His limbs were heavy, and when he lifted his head to see what weighed her down so his neck cracked with such an almighty sound that it sounded like a snapped branch.

“God above,” he managed on a thin, aspirated grunt. “What hit me?”

“Quite so,” a remarkably mellifluent male voice remarked. “Sleep like the dead, creak like the dead, I’ve found.”

Vernon couldn’t quite parse the fact of someone else in his room. Hubert would die before he spoke like that, and it was highly, highly improper for anyone else to be there, even if he were at all interested in a discreet lover.

He managed to scramble upright.

“And a hairy bird’s nest capable of housing an eagle,” the same voice remarked. “You look a fright.”

Try as he might, Vernon could not see anyone in the room: not Hubert, not the lord of the house, not even another servant. In fact, there was nothing in the room but a battered mouser that had crept in sometime. Just to be certain, he fought to his feet, looked under his bed and in the closets. Nothing but the guzunder and clothes.

“Over here.”

He turned in the direction of the voice and got eyed by the cat. A malevolent glare if ever there was one, with eyes as golden-tawny as the most expensive amber and an impressive set of teeth when it yawned.

Vernon, blinking, looked again, just in case he was missing an entire person somewhere.

“You’re rather slow when you wake up, aren’t you?” This time, stretching, the cat got up on its paws from the nest it had made on his indoor jacket and sat up imperiously.

His mind hiccupped. “You’re a cat.”

“Precisely so.”

“But you’re cat.” Vernon wondered if he had perhaps woken up in some kind of alternate existence, an Eastern fable of some sort where animals spoke.

The cat yawned, and disdain practically dripped off the gesture. “I believe we’ve established it. I’m a cat. I’m a cat that needs your help.”

“Odd’s bloody bodkin!” Vernon swore.

_You’re going mad, just like it’s rumoured Mama’s family does. Totally mad._

“What kind of help could a cat want?” It came out sharp enough that he cleared his throat, trying to recall his manners. “Do you even have a name, cat?” Quieter then, “Er, is it Mephistopheles?”

The cat’s jaw snapped shut, and now when he looked, he could see its muzzle wasn’t moving at all. The voice just arrived in his head like… like some granny hedge-magic or fairies or something. “I’m not the devil. My name is… you may call me Kwan. Now, if you are quite done, you need to open the door or window so that I can get out. Unless you want me to pee on here?”

Moving as if charmed, Vernon crossed to the door and opened it, letting ‘Kwan’ out. As he did so, Hubert came bustling in, took one look at his white face and sent him right back to bed, sending a parlor maid running for a little thin gruel. “Took cold somewhere, I’d wager. Beastly rain, this is! I’ll make your apologies to the lord, young master. You can meet them in the morning. Non non… in bed!”

Vernon allowed himself to be herded back to bed and pulled the covers up high. A half-hour later he forced down the bowl of gruel and a hideous tisane the lady of the house sent to him, and went back to sleep.


	3. Chapter 3

The next morning dawned with a cessation of the headache that had plagued his night, and he found that the lord of the house was indeed a kind older man, more given to looking after his local lands than hunting. His wife was approaching a slightly curved, very comfortable middle age, and insisted on being called Helen in defiance of all strictures of society. She plied Vernon with an early breakfast and set him free on the mist-covered grounds, pointing out the best person to speak to.

Goodrich Manor was surrounded by the Forest of Dean three sides of the house, thick enough to cover the ground and obscure far sight. At its front, the formal gardens stretched immaculately down towards the path leading to Goodrich Village proper, which he could just about see if he squinted in the right direction.

He turned away though, deciding on a ramble in the wood instead, and happily meandered in the direction of the charming path pointed out by a groundskeeper the lady of the house had pointed him to. He had not gone fifteen feet beyond the low kitchen wall when Kwan came wandering past and assaulted his ankles.

“Good morning,” Vernon said cautiously, looking down at the sinuous brown-furred body before checking to see no one caught him talking to a cat. “I, ah, trust that you’ve slept well.”

Kwan issued a noise that was not quite yowl and not quite hiss, but the command to pick him up and keep on walking was very clear. Vernon did, feeling a trifle silly, and only stopped walking about a mile into the woods to sit on a rock.

“That’s better,” Kwan opined. “I hate mud in my paws. Give me that sausage I can smell.”

Watching in bemusement, Vernon dug into his pocket and pulled out the thick cotton cloth wrapped around four fried sausages and a piece of raisin bread. He nibbled on the latter and tore up the former into little chunks for Kwan, watching him eat with some bemusement. For all that he gobbled the sausages up quickly, he did so very neatly and spent a long time afterwards washing and grooming himself.

_If only it was as easy to lick myself clean_ , Vernon mused.

“Your spine isn’t the right shape,” came his voice.

Vernon looked away from sheer embarrassment. “Now you read minds too?” he asked weakly. “Truly a miracle cat.”

“Of course I am. How’s your head?”

Vernon breathed in deeply. “It’s feeling fine,” he eventually said. “Much better. The air up here is very fine.”

“It’s that iron contraption you rode in yesterday, that and the warding up around the place. It’s not often they get someone with Fair blood up this way, and the devil down in Goodrich is corrupting the ley lines.”

Vernon stared at the cat, too gobsmacked to think of something to say. He had woken up inspired to pen a natural study of some sort, and now they were suddenly in the midst of devils and demons and things out of Grimm’s tales. “I’m not sure if I’m the right person to be talking to,” he ventured. “I really have no idea what might solve your, ah, devil problems, unless you’d like me to talk to a priest for you?”

Kwan arranged himself to give Vernon a long flat look. It was the longest, flattest look he had ever had from anyone, let alone anything. “You really don’t know anything, do you.”

That irritated Vernon almost as much as the aristocratic cat eating all his sausages. “I know quite a few things, but I’ve not been educated in the finer points of mythology, no, or would that be demonology? It’s not an Oxford topic. But perhaps if you could explain nicely what’s going on, I might be moved to more pity than I normally have for people eating my breakfast.”

Wonder above wonder, that didn’t earn him an aggrieved hiss. “Even though it doesn’t look it, what with all the pretentious gardens and that monstrosity of a house, this used to be Fair country, as in Fair Folk. Fae. No, not the fairies in your stories, and don’t think to interrupt, just let me explain. The energy lines of the earth, the leys, accumulate here in a tangle, and that lures them like honey, so somewhere back in history some hedge-witch warded the area. Planted iron, told the people to keep the blacksmith’s horse-shoes on their entrances, and so on. The reason’s been lost but because people get used to things, it became tradition. It kept their children and lands safe. With me so far?”

Vernon nodded, fascinated despite himself. When Kwan lectured, his voice mellowed, became soothing and pleasant on the ear. “Yes, go on.”

“Now, even the most powerful spell is going to run out sometime.” Kwan gave a sniff that wrinkled his whiskers. “Whoever it was should have used stone, not iron. But then she was probably working with what she guessed worked.”

“Because iron oxidises, right? It rusts away after exposure to moisture and air,” Vernon murmured, fingers slipping into the coat’s pockets against the cold. “Depending on how long ago it is you’re talking about even the greatest anvil could be rusted to a nub now if it’s in the earth.”

Kwan gave him a semi-impressed look. “Amazing. You actually followed that. Perhaps some of you are smarter than sheep. Next you’re going to tell me you can actually read.”

Biting the inside of his cheek, Vernon merely grimaced and encouraged him to continue with a tilt of his head.

“Now, contrary to a few tales I’ve heard, iron doesn’t instantaneously kill the Fair Folk. It does give them a headache and a half though, like bashing your head repeatedly against a wall, and if they stay too long in its presence it can cause them to sicken and die. Since I know of no creature under this sun or any other that would willingly go near what gives it such pain, they stay clear. That would be why you had such a nightmare headache last night. You drove all the way here in that carriage – several days I presume? – and that compounded by the waning warding was enough to make you bleed from your nostrils. It’s a good thing I was here.”

Vernon stared at him as he attempted to figure out what alternate England he had woken up in. “…excuse me,” he finally got out, “but I lost you at the beginning there somewhere.”

“You have the old blood, idiot, although in your case not too old. It’s rare that I meet someone that has enough of it in them to get the iron sickness. Mother… grandmother perhaps? It usually goes in matrilineal lines.”

“I’m not a fairy,” Vernon said stoutly. “I’m not pretty or able to wiggle my fingers and make things happen or... or something like that.” His voice trailed off as, like a hideously gothic book, memories played. His mother’s extreme beauty, her sickliness, the way she refused to go into London in her youth…

“Exactly,” Kwan said smugly. “Besides, five minutes ago you didn’t even know there was a ward here, or that wards existed. If I had to sum it up, the total amount of knowledge that you don’t know about yourself is staggering.”

“You said you healed me?”

“There’s a good reason why everyone and their kin thinks all evil witches have a black cat as a familiar,” Kwan explained. “Cats were set down as the guardians of the boundaries of this earth a long time ago, and they have a connection to it that few have. They were teachers of old, and helped integrate all energy work into something more than just a flash in the pan. There really is more to heaven and earth, as that writer fellow said.”

The supreme irony of a cat quoting Hamlet to him in a foggy wood pushed Vernon over some internal boundary where his mind gave in, if only to get a break. “So you healed me? Are you my familiar now?”

Kwan gave him another flat look. “Hardly. I merely gave your body a little help in leaching the poisoning out, and gave it a temporary immunity. I can’t have you keeling over if I want you to help me. If you would follow along, whilst I might have the form of a cat, I’m not actually a cat. I’ve been cursed into this form and stuck in it since before you lot stopped painting your skins blue and killing everything. Not only that, but I’ve been stuck on this benighted world in the wards ever since, unable to leave the house’s immediate area.”

Vernon’s fingers twitched, tempted for a moment to toss the cat off his lap. For all that he was a sarcastic bastard, if not actually feline, the story hinted at being sad. “But here we are,” he pointed out as gently as he could. “Quite a distance away from the house.”

“Exactly.” Kwan pounced on that as if a mouse. “And how did I get here? You.” He paused as if considering further explanation, and went on blithely. “With the wards weakening, more things are lured here than the old blood.”

“The devil you mentioned?” Vernon asked sourly.

Kwan spared his paw another lick. “Exactly. We need one of the old guardians here, but I’ve not been able to find one. You’d be shocked at the state of cats these days. They’re almost stupider than the people, and that’s saying a lot.”

Vernon forbore pointing out that Kwan was a cat, or at least cat-shaped. His temper, long as it was, threatened to peek out again, and he stood putting Kwan to one side. “I am afraid I don’t know any. None have spoken to me before, and in any case, you’re beyond the boundaries now, correct? You are free to go where you wish. I have a wedding to attend, and a house party after that. Now if you’ll excuse me?”

“You’re just going to ignore what I told you?” Kwan asked, and even in Vernon’s mind that sounded incredulous. “Maybe you are as stupid as I thought then.” Giving a sniff, his tail lashed and he jumped down onto the loamy path, disappearing with a stiff back and clearly unhappy posture.

Vernon only kept himself from burying his face in his palms by the strictest of willpower and got up, dusting herself off. Perhaps the owners of the house would believe another bout of sickness, and right now he felt like burying his head beneath the blankets and sleeping the last hour’s talk away.


	4. Chapter 4

Vernon felt like a side of pork being sized up as he withdrew with the gentlemen to the evening cigars and port after dinner. The billiards room was luckily of a good size so he could stay out of the clouds of black smoke. He rather gathered none of these fine gentlemen were on the lookout for themselves, but several had children of the right age, which left him feeling like an ornery boar with a thorn in its foot.

He had barely sat down on one of the observers’ chairs when a cat – the cat – jumped on his lap and settled there as if it owned him.

“Are you done sulking?” Kwan asked him, wandering round and round in a circle until he found a comfortable spot to plop down on. “I thought it was perhaps that I ate your breakfast and you went hungry. But really, you try getting the taste of mice and rats out of your mouth, and then tell me you wouldn’t kill someone for some good sausage. But it’s after dinner now, my young lord, you’re alright?”

Vernon stared down at the cat, lifted his gaze to the gentlemen milling around them and back down at the cat. There was no sight anyone heard the cat but him; despite what he thought of his fellow gentlemen here one would have to be remarkably stupid to miss a talking cat of this volume. “…hello?” he attempted. “Er…”

Kwan flicked his tail, claws digging into Vernon’s legs as he scooted around to watch the table action. “None so blind as those that can’t see,” he said irreverently. “Even if any of them saw a talking cat, _which they do not,_ they would hardly call attention to it.” The very tip of his tail flickered a little, lashing to and fro. “Not that I’d expect these dumb oxen to see anything. Head-blind, like it’s something to be proud of. Want me to prove it?”

Vernon paled, then winced. Kwan had really sharp claws, and his thighs weren’t used to someone mauling them. “No!” he hissed, reaching to try and get some relief from the needle-sharp prickles of pain. “Please stop clawing me!”

The cat settled back down, mercifully hauling his claws back. “You’d be thankful if I clawed you in my normal shape,” he muttered, before falling silent.

Fascinated, Vernon stared at the back of the cat’s head. Between pulled-back ears and a clump of fur fluffing at the back of the well-shaped head, he wasn’t sure whether he was in for an imminent mauling of whether the uncertain-turned-cat felt ashamed. “Was that a double entendre or invitation?” he asked eventually. “Because I’m not so good at picking them up.”

“You’re remarkably irritating,” Kwan said huffily. He clawed Vernon on one kneecap. “Look over there. The whist table. Go over there and listen.”

“I can’t play whist well.”

“Those people can’t either.”

Vernon suppressed a sigh and gathered Kwan in his arms. It was only now with the lack of headache and thicker walking gloves that he felt the lack of weight from the cat and a distressing curve of ribs, despite immaculately-cleaned fur. _Poor thing. What person would really like subsisting on vermin, even if they are in the form of a cat?_ Grimacing, he shifted him to the crook of an elbow as he reached the whist table and bowed to those there, halfway confused as to why he was doing it in the first place. “Gentlemen,” he said as pleasantly as he could. “May I join you?”

The taller of the two, with a florid complexion and fat cheeks, nodded pleasantly to him. “I hope you have come with deep pockets, Darcy,” he called. “We just need another for the table… ah, Parson. Will you indulge us?”

Vernon took a seat and tried not to wince as Kwan jumped away and underneath the table. He could feel him twining through his ankles as he looked up at the man. “Thank you, Patrickson, Gordon. Parson… Wells?”

For a young man of no particular disfigurements and little physical character, Vernon liked him remarkably ill. This close there was something about him that seemed off, some slant to his eyes and oiliness of manner that reminded Vernon of the Bennets’ relation Mr. Collins. He had met the man only once, thankfully, though Seokmin had told him about his brash lack of manners and devotion to Aunt Catherine. Smiling uneasily, he eyed the little scraps of paper with bets on them in the middle of the card table, just to get an idea of what was afoot.

“Thought I might as well build up a lining for later, what?” their host laughed coarsely. “The ladies might be delicate, but they can play like sharks too!”

_Money mostly. A silver snuffbox, a couple of rings, nothing too much. Still, I really hope they play badly, I’m not that good either._

As third comer to the table he was paired up with Mr. Gordon, the rabbit-looking younger brother of one of the ladies. He seemed to suffer the curse most younger brothers did; his coat was immaculate but not _fine_.

Vernon felt a tap at his ankle, what felt like Kwan switching at his leg with his tail, but ignored it for the moment as the first hand begun. They lost that, leading Parson Wells to a small smile and uproarious laughter from Mr. Patrickson. The second hand started much in the same way, but this time Kwan clawed one ankle, and he grimaced into the brandy until he realized that the cat was somehow signalling him which card to play.

_Well, it’s not like I know which one to play anyway._

Giving up, he followed along, smiling uncomfortably at his partner.

“Such a lovely happening,” the parson said in his soft, oily voice. “One is so honoured to be invited to officiate at a wedding such as this. The couple is so particularly enamoured with each other.”

Another claw. Vernon tried hard not to grimace again and closed the trick, sliding it over to his side. “How long have you had the living here, sir?” he asked, placing out his next card. “We come but rarely to this side of the Downs, but it is a pleasant locale.”

Patrickson took a stiff slug of his brandy. “You prefer talking to playing cards, Darcy?” he snorted. “Wells has been here forever, right?”

Vernon, watching, saw the irritation lurking deep in Gordon’s eyes as he quietly played as well; if he had not been as used to reading his brother’s face he would not have seen it. _How does he do it again?_ “I’m covering up my lack of skill, Patrickson,” he said with Jisoo’s best bland expression on his face. “The more I talk, the less money you win off me.”

The table laughed at that, even though it had been a weak comeback. “The Wells family have been here for generations,” the parson said after the laughter. “The living is a family one, and though we are sadly dwindled as a family, it came to me a few years back. It would have gone to my brother, but he unfortunately did not return from the war. I’m honoured by the trust the Wintons have placed in me, however.”

The very quiet Mr. Gordon cleared his throat. “The woods are so lovely this time of year,” he said as he scanned the table, then closed the trick. “It will be lovely weather for the wedding at least. I thought I heard from my cousin that you are marrying them in the old chapel, Parson, not the new church built down in the town?”

_Claw claw claw._

“Old church?” Vernon asked, voice almost cracking.

The parson gave a remarkably loud sigh. “Oh, off towards the west of the estate, in a ramble up the hill? The bride _insisted_ , so there it will be, not my nice modern church. How I’m going to give service with the smell of mold I don’t know.”

Vernon, grimacing, didn’t know what to say, but was saved by Gordon pulling the game back and winning them the hand. Palming his winnings, he bowed to the table and almost made it out of the room, only to be half-tripped by a cat twining around his ankles again. Kwan locked him up long enough that he got caught in the rush as everyone rejoined the ladies for the evening’s entertainment, though he managed to haver enough to find a seat in the back rows.

Sitting down in the half-shadowed nook, he amused himself by counting pieces of wood in the parquet floor, content to hide behind the stuffed peacock until it was time to leave. Given his luck in the game, he should have expected it to end and it did, in the form of his hostess calling upon him to play the pianoforte. Grimacing for a moment, he made his way over and sat down on the small chair, staring down at the ivories. He hadn’t played since his father’s death and the upset with Wickam; staring down at the old-ivory keys made him want to tell the lot of them to go away and be damned.

Inhaling, he closed his eyes and started his father’s favourite. The notes still slowly came to him, gliding like bittersweet water through and around his hands. The crowd grew silent as he played, and only moved again when he finished. They applauded him but he heard little of it, leaving the room directly. Two corridors, then a jaunt down into the gardens and finally he could breathe again through the pain that had cost him. His hands shook as he sat down in the immaculate garden, tears streaming down his cheeks.

“Is that the first time that you’ve cried?” came a voice after a while as a lithe shape jumped up on the small planter ledge next to him.

Vernon gave a mirthless laugh, still wiping furiously at his eyes. “No,” he said softly. “Of course not. But it’s still painful. I didn’t even really know what I had until it was gone. At least I knew my father. I don’t even recall my mother.”

Kwan didn’t say anything for a long time before he sighed softly. “You must have earned the gift of music from her,” he said at length. “Few people – human or not – play sadly enough to move even my heart.” He fell silent, but shuffled closer until he impertinently crept onto Vernon’s lap and settled there. “She must have loved your father very much to marry him.”

Vernon’s throat and heart ached. “Why?” he managed to fight out.

“Because,” Kwan said simply. “She would not have had you and your brother otherwise. Fae don’t have children the same way humans to, my young lord. Having children is a deliberate act, a lessening one. Few Fae care to make that choice.”

Grimacing as he reached for Kwan, Vernon delicately patted behind his neck and between his ears, earning a rumble. “I don’t want to speak about it,” he whispered softly. “Tell me what that game was at the whist table rather.”

Kwan let him stew for a couple of heartbeats. “He killed and ate his brother,” he finally said. “The devil parson. It wasn’t quite the most horrific thing I’ve ever seen, but it was close. I… no, don’t stop scratching. I have been trapped here for a long time and most of the time I sleep, just to pass the boredom. One night a few years back, I woke up to the world going topsy-turvy underneath me. Something was sucking at the power of this place like a fat tick, and it wasn’t until he came to the manor that I could see what had made such an uproar.”

The way Kwan’s cat body put out heat soothed Vernon a little, though he had to fight down nausea at the thought. “We’ve never had this kind of thing at Pemberley,” he shared. “The old superstitions of course, and we were taught to put out milk and stay away from the elf hills, but nothing as bad as it seems to be here. No spirits, or ghosts, or devils…” His arms tightened around Kwan as heartache reared its ugly head again. “Golden years, you know?”

Kwan wiggled a little, but found a position comfortable enough to suit him, paws half over Vernon’s one shoulder as Vernon cried into his fur. “There, there,” he said softly. “It’s okay, my young lord. Cry a little.”

“Men shouldn’t cry,” Vernon got out, pinching his eyes shut. He didn’t know why he was doing it, save that the emotion felt like a giant wave and Kwan was a _cat_ , not someone he would see again and again in social circles. Kwan was a cat. He was crying into a cat’s fur, listening to him be wise.

_For god’s sake, what is happening to me?_

“Then they aren’t men,” Kwan said, sounding remote and tired and old. “I cry all the time.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>   * In P&P, Georgiana Darcy was vastly fond of music, so our Vernonie is as well... not that he isn't already. Here, to fit the times and the character, he plays piano (or harpsichord, I'm not sure which one it was). The song he [played](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=blTpBVwqLyw). 
> 



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